


gone

by itisjosh



Series: onlypain [45]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anger, Angst, As it should be, Attempt at Humor, Crying, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, It is all platonic, Moving On, Past Character Death, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29031756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh
Summary: Wilbur is visited by seven living people.And one dead.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: onlypain [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027711
Comments: 9
Kudos: 170





	gone

Tommy crouches down in front of Wilbur's grave, setting the bundle of flowers down onto the ground. He looks at the headstone, wondering why it's already dull and broken. It's barely been a week since Wilbur died, but it feels like years have gone by. At the same time, it feels like only minutes have passed, and Tommy wonders why time is so fucking weird now. He closes his eyes, breathing in and out in a rhythm that Wilbur taught him back when he was still alive. The words feel horrible to think, and Tommy can't imagine himself speaking them outloud. _Wilbur is dead._ Tommy breathes out, biting down on his tongue as he opens his eyes. 

Wilbur Soot is dead. His President, his older brother, his friend, is dead. Wilbur was so much to so many people, and now he's fucking _gone_ , he's gone and he's dead and he left everyone behind. Tommy doesn't know how the fuck he's supposed to do anything without his older brother by his side, he really doesn't. Wilbur was always the driving force in his life, he always pointed and Tommy always followed. Wilbur was the reason he knew what to do, Wilbur always told him what to do and how to do it. He was always there, he was the rock that Tommy needed, the stability that he craved, and now he's _gone_. 

Tommy swallows, sniffling. He reaches up, wiping away the tears that are already threatening to spill down his face. He hasn't cried in a long, long time. Tommy can't even remember the last time he actually cried, but now, at Wilbur's grave, he thinks that he'll break that record of not remembering. It's all too much, and Tommy has to tear his gaze away from the headstone, forcing himself to look up at the sky, rapidly blinking. He bites back his cries, wondering if it'll get easier the more he visits. Tommy lets out a quiet sob that he can't hide fast enough, because _he'll keep visiting_. This isn't a one time thing, he realises. Wilbur is dead, and the only way Tommy will ever be able to say hello or talk to him is by coming out to the graveyard. 

He falls back, dragging his legs up to his chest, resting his head on his knees. He stares at the words on Wilbur's headstone, silently reading what's written on it. 

_WILBUR SOOT_

_PRESIDENT. FATHER. BROTHER. FRIEND. TRAITOR._

_MAY HE REST IN PEACE._

Tommy stares at the words for what feels like years, feeling something akin to rage stir in his chest. _Traitor_. He pushes himself off of the ground, furiously looking around for something, anything, to scrape that word off of the grave. Tommy grabs a rock close to his foot, clutching it in his hand as he slams it into the headstone. He scrapes at the word, slamming the rock into the the headstone over and over and over and over again, barely realising that he's screaming, that he's crying, that he's..that he's..

He closes his eyes. This isn't bringing Wilbur back. Nothing will ever bring his brother back, no matter what he does. Wilbur's dead. He's gone, there is nothing that will ever make him come back. Tommy misses him so much. He never thought it was possible to miss someone this much. 

Tommy forces himself to breathe, biting down so hard on his tongue that he tastes blood. He turns his head, spitting it out into the snow, throwing the rock to the ground. He raises his arm, wiping away his tears with the back of it, swallowing the words he wants to scream out. He stands there in silence, his chest heaving, tears streaming down his face. Tommy feels his hands shake with anger, his entire body trembling with hurt and shock and fear and _rage_. Tommy closes his eyes, standing as straight as he can. He feels a pain in both of his hands, looking down. He sees blood running down his fingertips, staining the snow with red. He glances down to the rock, to the headstone, frowning at the blood that he sees. 

He must've hit his hand. He hadn't even realised he had done that. Tommy stares at Wilbur's headstone, stares at the cracked rock. It's a surprise, he thinks, that he didn't fucking destroy his grave. Tommy thinks that he should. He thinks that he should kill the person who designed his headstone in the fucking first place. Tommy breathes out, shaking his head as he lets out a bitter laugh, not entirely sure why he's laughing. "Will," he whispers, swallowing back every bitter word he wants to say. "I'm sorry. Was it- was it because of me? I know that.." he sighs. "It wasn't, it's not my fault. That's what you always used to tell me, that's what you always reminded me. That it was never my fault, that it was yours, or that it was Dream's, or Schlatt's. I can't help but feel like it's mine, though." 

He sits back down, burying his hands under the snow, trying his best to numb them, to block out the pain. "Maybe if I had just forced you to stay in Pogtopia, you wouldn't have pushed that button. Maybe if I hadn't let you out of my sight, you wouldn't be dead. You know, Will, I still don't know what happened to you in that room. I saw Phil come out of the room, but you didn't. Why'd Phil come out of that room, Will? Why didn't you? Why were you dead? He wouldn't let anyone see you until you were put in a casket and thrown into the ground, and I don't know why. Did.." Tommy trails off, refusing to think about that. He doesn't need to know. He thins that, if he knew what happened to Wilbur, that would make everything worse. "I miss you," Tommy decides on those words instead. "I miss you, so much."

"People keep trying to convince me that you were bad," he scoffs. "But you're _not_. You were never _bad_ , Wilbur. You never were bad, and I don't know why people can't see that. You went mental, and I still don't know why, but you weren't _bad_. You were just..so much had happened, and I guess that's how you dealt with it? I wish you hadn't decided that going insane and blowing up L'manberg was the best way to handle it, but I..I can understand. And it's far too late to change the past, and there's no point in trying to. I don't get why people keep whispering your name as if it were, like, a swear. Wilbur, I am _sick and fucking tired_ of people treating you like a bad person."

Tommy turns away from his brother's grave, feeling less angry, feeling less sad. He feels nothing at all. "Wilbur, you told me that it was never my fault. You told me to make you proud. Your last words to me were that we won, that you were proud of me. I'd like to think that you meant them," Tommy turns back to look at the headstone. "I would like to think you really did mean them. So, Wilbur, I'm going to make you proud. I'm going to rebuild your nation, I'm going to build it from the ground up. I'm going to be the best goddamn Vice President this world has ever seen, and I'm going to wear your flag on my back. I'm going to make this place good again, and I'm going to do it all for you. No matter what it takes, Will, I'm going to make you proud." 

"I promise."

* * *

Tubbo kneels down in front of Wilbur's grave, frowning at the bloodied stone that lays next to it. He looks away, wondering if that's supposed to be there. He clears his throat, shifting to get himself comfortable. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, looking down at the letter. He wrote it the day that Wilbur died, though he's not sure if it even really matters to read it. It's not like Wilbur is alive to hear the words spoken. Tubbo stares at the words written in ink, stares at the ink smudges that follow. He cried more than he would like to admit at Wilbur's death. 

"You were a very..a very good person," Tubbo whispers. "You know that, right? You..you really do have to know that. Everyone always says that you went all crooked, that you went evil and wrong and bad. But you were..you always told me to not worry too much about spying, about putting myself in high-risk situations, as you called them. But did you ever think of doing that, yourself, Wilbur? 'Course you didn't, of course you didn't. Why would you? You always had to lead people, you were the beacon in everyone's lives." 

Tubbo looks away, setting his letter in the snow, watching as the snow melts onto it, completely destroying it within seconds. 

"You're gone now. It hurts a lot. It hurts a lot to even think about, 'cause you were supposed to live forever. I saw people die in front of me, but I never saw them _not_ come back. Like- like Tommy. I watched him get shot, and we pulled him out of that lake, and we made sure he lived. But I guess that..it's a..a three strikes 'nd you're out kinda deal, huh? I think that's bullshit, Wilbur. I think that's a real bad thing that shouldn't happen. Dying is so awful, Wilbur. I know that you have to understand what I mean, since you've died three times, since you're..since you're dead. But it feels so bad, Wilbur. And you had to have known that you were going to die, right? You had to have known. And that's the worst bit of it all. The knowing bit, that's the worst."

Tubbo blinks up at the sky, watching as snow falls from it, snowflakes spinning before they land in his lap and on the top of Wilbur's headstone. He wishes that he wasn't so cold. 

"Wilbur, I really miss you. And I know that you and I, we weren't nearly as close as you and Tommy were. But I'd still consider you like, a brother, you know? You kept me safe, you did so much for all of us, and I wish I had the time to thank you properly. I wish you were still here. It's so weird, thinking of this as the only place I can talk to you at. I really wish that you were still here, that you were still alive. That you could listen to me, and then you- you could laugh at me for being all sappy. Tommy doesn't laugh as much as he used to," Tubbo closes his eyes. "He's stopped smiling, too. You dying hurt him more than I think you could ever know. He's..not the same without you, Wilbur. He's just..he's not Tommy without you."

He sighs, looking back up at the greying sky. "He really isn't the same without you. He spends almost all of his time out here, and he's always murmuring to himself in the middle of the night. Sometimes I can hear what he's saying, but I try my best to not listen. I think they're words meant for you, when he can't get out of bed to talk to you here. He loves you so much, Wilbur. I know you always told me that him and I were the dynamic duo, or whatever it was that you said, but I really do think that it was you two. That you two were the ones with the unbreakable bond. 'Cause even though you went mental, he didn't move an inch away from your side. He stuck with you."

Tubbo breathes out, the cold air hitting the back of his throat. "He'd walk through hell if he thought it would get you back. If there was a way to bring you back to life," Tubbo smiles, "he would do it. No matter what it was, he'd do it. And that..that scares me sometimes, Wilbur. 'Cause we're on our last lives, him and I. One more death and we're gone for good, just like you. I'm ready to die, Wilbur. But you know what I'm not ready for? Tommy to die. If he thought him dying would bring you back, I'm nearly certain that he'd lay down his life for you to have your own." 

"That scares me, Wilbur. It quite honestly fucking terrifies me. I'm not ready to lose my best friend. As much as I want you to come back, and much as I love and miss you, I can't let Tommy do anything like that. I.." Tubbo stands up, swallowing. "I really hope that you understand that I can't let you come back if it means that Tommy has to die. I'd do anything for him, Wilbur. I would lay down my own life for you to come back if he asked me to. But if _he_ has to die for _you_ to come back?" He shakes his head, smiling numbly. "I won't let that happen. I'm sorry, Wilbur, really. But I can't do that."

Tubbo looks at the words on Wilbur's grave, frowning.

_WILBUR SOOT._

_PRESIDENT. FATHER. BROTHER. FRIEND. TR_

_MAY HE REST IN PEACE._

Tubbo blinks. "Wilbur," he murmurs. "What did they put on your grave?" He asks, looking back at the bloodied stone he chose to ignore. "Tommy. What did he scrape off of your headstone, Wilbur?" Tubbo picks up the rock, feeling his heart sink to his stomach. "What was so bad that he had to remove it?" Tubbo looks back at Wilbur's grave. "What did you have to do to have it written, in the first place, Wilbur? What really happened in that room?"

Tubbo knows the basics, he understands that Wilbur pressed the button. 

"But is that all that happened to you in there, Wilbur? What secrets do you have?"

* * *

Phil tosses the bouquet of flowers down to Wilbur's grave, snorting when they fall out of their plastic. "Well," he sits down, crossing his legs over each other. "You've got a cozy little resting ground, huh?" Phil laughs, ducking his head. "I think that you'd like it. You have a mini garden here, Will. I swear, I really need to stop bringing you flowers, you _really_ don't need anymore than you have, Jesus," Phil smiles, knowing fully well that he won't stop anytime soon. "I really miss you, Will. I know that I wasn't here for very long, that I wasn't able to save you, to see what happened, but I miss you. You're still my son, and you always will be." 

He hisses under his breath as he tries to adjust, his wings scraping together. They hurt more than he thought they would. "I lost you and my wings that day, Wilbur. Of course, you're a fuck ton more important than these things," Phil motions back to his half-burnt wings, though it isn't like Wilbur can see them. "I'm kind of pissed at you, but I know that I shouldn't be. I'm mad that you asked me to kill me, and I'm even madder than I agreed to it. I should have just taken you and flown away. Even if my wings were on fire, Will, I'd have flown away if it meant saving you. That's what I should've done." 

Phil sighs, closing his eyes as he listens to crows chitter around him. Ever since he got here, the crows here have decided to follow him everywhere he goes, constantly singing songs to him, flying above him, beckoning him to join them in the sky. Phil leans back, careful to not move his wings too much. He thinks that it would be so much fucking easier if they had just fully burnt off. He knows better than to try and clip the rest of them. The thought alone makes him want to die - the pain he'd experience would be unbearable, and there's no way in hell he would ever do that to himself. He can deal with this pain, he really can. But clipping his wings entirely, the pain of that would be too much. It would surely kill him.

"Anyways," Phil sighs. "Back to what I was saying. It's way too late to fix anything, it's too late for us to restart. Though, it isn't too late to try and bring you back," he smiles. "I've been reading up on it, Will. I think that I could bring you back to life. I have a couple lives left to spare, right?" Phil beams at his son's grave, standing back up. "Will, I really do think that I can bring you back. Fuck if I know where I'm supposed to get a _Totem of Undying_ , but I know that I can figure it out. I _promise_ that I'll figure it out. You're my son, Wilbur. Did you ever doubt that I wouldn't try to fix all of this?" 

Phil ducks his head, letting out a short bark of laughter. "I'll make things right, Wilbur. You don't have to worry about it, because I'll worry for you. That's just what dads do, right?" He smiles. "Just give me a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, to figure all of this out. I'll get you back, Will. I promise." 

Phil shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks away, pausing for a second. 

"Oh yeah, right." He smiles, turning his head ever so slightly to look back at Wilbur's grave. He really does have far too many flowers, Phil thinks. That doesn't mean that he's going to stop adding to the garden.

"Love you, Will."

* * *

Techno throws his sword to the ground, scoffing when it doesn't make any noise in the snow. He towers over Wilbur's grave, remembering a time where he was taller, when his brother wasn't dead. "They say," Techno murmurs, "that when your twin dies, part of you dies." 

Techno kicks snow away from Wilbur's grave, wishing that someone was here for him to blame, someone he could punch or stab or hurt. Someone he could take his anger out on, someone who could be his punching bag. 

But no one else is here. 

It's just him and Wilbur, and Wilbur's fucking dead. 

Wilbur is dead, he's dead and gone, and he's never going to come back. Wilbur will never come back, because he's _fucking dead_. Techno will never see his brother alive again, he'll never see Wilbur again. Techno closes his eyes, a low, tired hiss coming from the back of his throat. He's alone. He's alone, there's no one left for him. No one is here. Techno is alone. 

He's alone. 

Wilbur is dead.

Wilbur is gone.

Wilbur died, and he stole half of his soul.

"I'm not gonna let you take half of my soul," Techno whispers, feeling tears prick at his eyes. He hasn't cried in so long, he hasn't cried in years. He barely can even remember the last time he cried, and he doesn't want it to be today. "Wilbur," he closes his eyes, breathing out harshly. "I'm so fuckin' mad at you," Techno barks out a laugh, shaking his head. "I'm so _mad_ at you!" He shouts, whirling around to stare at Wilbur's grave. "Fuck you!" Techno screams, tears streaming down his face.

He falls to his knees, balling up his hands into fists, slamming them against the ground. He sobs, choking on cries and wishing that he hadn't come here. "Fuck you,"he whispers, the words breaking and shattering, his voice cracking. "I.." Techno trails off, his words cutting off into sobs. He buries his face in his hands, tugging at his hair as he tries to distract himself from the pain he feels. "I _miss_ you." 

Of course, there's no response. 

"Please come back."

The silence rings in his ears.

"Please, Wilbur. I can't do this without you."

_Nothing._

Techno doesn't know how long he's curled up there, crying. He stands up, sliding off his coat. He sets it on the corner of Wilbur's grave, barely flinching when the cold bites at his bare arms and throat. 

"To keep you warm."

* * *

Quackity looks down at Wilbur's grave, a tiny smile tugging up at his lips. "You've got too many fucking flowers, dude," Quackity laughs, sitting down in between both Schlatt and Wilbur's graves. "I'm kind of fucking angry that they buried you two next to each other. If I had it my way, I'd just send your bodies and ashes off to the fucking sea and hope to god we could all forget both of you," Quackity sighs, laying back in the snow. It isn't cold. "One of you was an abusive piece of shit alcoholic who I thought I loved, and the other was just.." Quackity laughs. "Wilbur, I've got no fucking clue how to describe you."

"'Cause you weren't a tyrant. You weren't evil, you weren't morally _wrong_ , I guess. You were the better of two evils, but you weren't evil yourself. I don't know what you were, but it wasn't _evil_. You had the right idea at first, even if I disagreed with you from, like, the beginning. I'm sorry," Quackity says, suddenly. "I shouldn't have fucking run against you in that stupid ass election. 'Cause then, this- this wouldn't have happened," Quackity sighs. "I'm really sorry. It's my fault, isn't it? It's..it's my fault, and I.." 

He trails off, staring at the pale grey sky. "Maybe it's not? I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore, Wilbur. I got so used to everything being blamed on me, being pinned all on me, and that's not happening anymore. People will stop by and say hello to me, and they- they ask about what happened. And if I say that I don't want to talk about it, they don't make me. They don't break down my house and scream at me, and..and.."

Quackity swallows. "They're nice, Wilbur. You were nice. I think that I've been fucking hardwired to think that I'm a piece of shit, but in the, like, twenty minutes I knew you, you..you.." he closes his eyes. "You were nice. You were good, and everyone here is good. They don't judge me when I come out here, even though I'm never even talking to _you_. I'm sorry, I just..I guess I..I.." Quackity turns his head, looking at Wilbur's headstone. "He's still got me good, huh? He's got me real fucking good, Wilbur. And I don't..I don't know how I'm supposed to get out of his grip."

"Do you know how to stop feeling like it's all your fucking fault?" He asks. "How you can stop being hurt by a dead man? How you can stop hurting, how you can stop thinking of yourself as a shit person?" Quackity laughs, blinking up at the sky. "Do you ever think that we'll all end up okay? Schlatt told me- he told me that I was never going to be okay. That, so long as I was with him, he'd decide how I felt. Is it bad of me to, um, to..to feel like I..to want someone to tell me how to feel?" Quackity feels tears prick at his face. He quickly wipes them away, Schlatt's words repeating over and over again in his head.

_"If you cry in front of me, Quackity, I'll give you a real good fucking reason to cry. Crying is fucking stupid, and you don't deserve to cry. You're stupid as fuck, but that doesn't mean you're exempt from listening to me, you got that?"_

"I'm sorry," Quackity sighs. "It's not like you're fucking around to even listen to me, but I guess it feels nice to..to vent, or whatever. Makes me feel less like shit, you know? Plus, you're dead, so it isn't like I'm really even bothering you, anyways." 

Quackity pushes himself up, breathing out. "Okay, um," he stares down at his feet, trying his best to avoid looking at Schlatt's grave. "Thanks for, um, being sort of..a realisation for me, I guess? That something was wrong. That, maybe, I don't..that maybe I wasn't the problem. That it was him," Quackity starts to walk, though he feels like the weight on his shoulders has gotten ten thousand times heavier. "Thank you." Quackity turns back.

"Thank you, Wilbur. For everything."

* * *

Niki sits next to Wilbur's grave, brushing off the snow that's collected on its top. She rests her head on the stone, closing her eyes. "What went wrong, Will?" She asks, her voice a low murmur. "Will, I really don't understand. We..you and I, we told each other that we could come to each other if something happened. You came to me whenever you were stressed and needed to hang up your coat and get out of the rain. Why didn't you come to me this time, Will? Why didn't you.." Niki trails off, watching as the flowers in her hands get crumpled by falling snow, their petals turning inwards. 

She sighs, wondering where it all went wrong. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I should've run from Manberg, I shouldn't have stayed. Maybe if I had been there with you, this would have never happened," Niki closes her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm really sorry. I think that this could have been so easily avoided, but I don't know how. Maybe if I was in Pogtopia with you, you'd have had someone to support you. Tommy was only a kid, and Technoblade isn't..he isn't the easiest to talk to, from what I've seen and heard." 

Niki opens her eyes again, looking up at the sky. The snowflakes are heavy and soft, and she wonders when it snowed last. "I've been trying to remodel the bakery. I've been using quartz and spruce, and I think that you would really, really like it, Will. I'd have brought bread or some pastries, but.." Niki laughs, ducking her head. "You're dead, so it doesn't matter."

The words ring in her head for a moment, and she throws her hand to her mouth. 

_Wilbur is dead._

"Oh," Niki murmurs, tears springing to her eyes. "I.."

Niki didn't think that the words would hurt that much, but she was wrong, she was so wrong. "Will, I..why didn't you come to me for help? Will, I could have..I'd have dropped everything for you, you knew that," Niki wipes away tears, wishing she had been there, wishing that she had done more. "Will, you knew. You knew you could have asked for help and you didn't, you kept the entire world on your shoulders, you didn't..you didn't.."

Niki squeezes her eyes shut, pretending like she can't hear her sobs, her cries. 

Wilbur didn't come to her for help.

He let the world collapse on him, he let everything hurt him. He let no one in, he didn't even reach out. 

He just put on a smile and a laugh, tugged on his coat, and told her, _"We'll be okay, Niki. I promise."_ Wilbur wasn't okay, he hadn't been okay for so long.

And Niki didn't even see it. 

"I'm so sorry, Will," she whispers. "I'm so sorry."

The silence is too much, nearly driving her away before she can murmur the rest of the words she wants to get out. 

_"I love you, Will."_

* * *

Fundy sits at his dad's grave, and all he can think about is how much he doesn't want to be here. He stares at his stupid headstone, wondering what the _TR_ stands for. He thinks that _"FATHER"_ should be scraped off of the stone, but he doesn't know how the hell he'd do it. It isn't even like Wilbur was ever a good dad. He was a shit fucking dad, and there's no reason for the label of "father" to be put on him.

Fundy thinks that it's so much easier to just pretend like Wilbur isn't his father. It's easier to pretend like Wilbur was just some man who he knew, and it makes it so much fucking easier to act like he doesn't care. Fundy doesn't have any flowers to set on the grave, figuring that Wilbur already had far too many for the crimes he committed, for what he did. Everyone overlooks it, every single one of them over looks everything he did, and no one fucking cares.

All they care about is who Wilbur used to be, not the people he hurt, not the people that he used. Wilbur was a bad fucking person, but no one cares! No one fucking _cares!_

Fundy wonders if he could burn this goddamn graveyard to the ground without being arrested. It isn't like anyone buried here deserves to have a peaceful afterlife. No, neither of the people here deserve to be at peace. 

"At least you weren't as bad as Schlatt," Fundy scoffs, kicking snow towards his dad's grave. "But that's setting the bar to the fucking ground, and to be quite fucking fair, you tripped over the goddamn bar," he sneers, kicking up more and more snow, wondering if he can cover both graves. "You never meant shit to me. You never even cared about me, did you? You just..you used me for brownie points, you used me so you could get pity points from everyone around you!" 

Fundy scoffs, looking away. 

"I thought that you loved me. I was so wrong, wasn't I? You- you know, Eret was supposed to adopt me. 'Cause I'm a fucking orphan now. You died, mom is dead, so guess what? I'm all alone. I've got no one left. I have _no one_ , Wilbur. No one! 'Cause _guess what?_ Eret took after you! He really did, he took after you! He didn't even show up to sign the fucking papers! I stood there, _waiting_ , and he didn't fucking show up! And Phil, my so-called _grandfather_ , won't even look at me. Fuck if I know what I did wrong!" Fundy laughs, shaking his head. "I'm so fucking pissed at you. You are the _worst_ fucking dad I could have ever gotten, and I..I.."

Fundy can't make himself say the words.

He can't say _I hate you_ , even though he wants to. He wants to tell Wilbur how much he hates him, but he _can't_. 

Fundy stifles a cry, jerking his muzzle away from his father's grave. "You said you'd always protect me. 'Cause I was your little champion. You told me that all the time, you'd..you said that you'd be there. No matter what happened, you said that you'd be there for me. You told me that, if I ever needed anything, you'd be there. You said you'd tear down the world for me to be okay, and guess what, Will? Guess what? You tore down the fuckin' world. but you took me with it."

He breathes out, tilting his head up to the sky. "And I'm so fucking mad, because- because _guess what,_ Wilbur? Guess!" Fundy laughs, shaking his head. "I love you! I love you, I fucking _love_ you, and I hate it _so much!_ I don't know why I love you! I _don't know_ , and I'm so mad, and I'm..I don't understand, and..and.." Fundy falls to his knees, slipping his hat off of his head. Techno's coat lays on the side of the ground by Wilbur's grave. His entire stupid graveyard his filled with flowers. Fundy sets his hat on the corner of Wilbur's headstone. It almost falls to the ground. Fundy wonders if that's a sign. 

"I love you, dad."

* * *

Wilbur stands over his grave, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets. 

"Hello, Alivebur," he smiles, his mouth drawing into a thin line. "I figured that I might as well come and see the garden that everyone's told me about," Wilbur smiles a little less, staring at the yellow roses that litter the ground around his grave. _His_ grave. "It's a shame that you're still part of me," he murmurs, careful to not accidentally let the snow seep into his boots. "From what I've heard, Wilbur, you were a bad, bad man. I'm glad that you're gone."

Wilbur stands back, crossing his arms. This person in front of him, the one buried, is evil. Surely, he has to be evil and disgusting and vile, just by the way everyone speaks of him. Tommy has tried to assure him that Alivebur, that the old him, wasn't evil. Just tired and hurt and broken. But, Wilbur thinks, being broken doesn't excuse anything. It may explain it, but it sure as hell doesn't excuse it. He wishes that people would tell him what happened, because he's sick and tired of being in the dark.

It was nice to not remember. 

Now, it's just a hinderance. 

An annoyance. 

"You," Wilbur announces, setting his hand on on his headstone, "were a shitty excuse of a man," Wilbur smiles. "And I do hope that you know, wherever you may be, everyone is glad that you're gone. Including me," he snorts, standing a little straighter. "I may not remember much, but I can remember vague things. Vague things about us, about what we did. About what you did. What you did here, what you did to L'manberg," Wilbur smiles. "Do you understand that, Alivebur? Do you understand, me? I would like to go by a different name, just so I don't have to be related to you."

Wilbur drops his smile. "It's a shame, really, that you and I are the same. People act as if we're the same person, and we really, truly, aren't. You know, Wilbur, I wonder if you're still there. If you're still part of me, somehow. They call me Ghostbur, you know," Wilbur laughs, "I really do hate that name. It's stupid. I much prefer Wilbur, but I suppose that they have to separate us somehow."

He turns away. 

"I'm sick and tired of being compared to you."

Wilbur remembers vague bits and pieces of who he used to be, and he hates it. He hates himself, the man he used to be. 

He is so tired of this. 

He's exhausted of being compared to Alivebur, of being compared to his old self. 

"I suppose you and I are one in the same," he smiles. "I remember your ideals and your motives. You wanted to make a good nation, you wanted to be a good man. What the _fuck_ happened to you?" Wilbur leans forwards. "Sometimes, when I go to certain places, I can feel myself slip away. I suppose that you're infested in my soul. I'm tired of you." 

Wilbur smiles. 

"I think, actually.." he trails off, tapping his fingers along his grave.

Not Aliverbur's grave.

No, not Alivebur's grave.

 _His_ grave.

"I think," Wilbur smiles a little more, "I might remember much more than I thought I did."

Wilbur looks away from his grave.

"Maybe there's a reason they tried to stop me from coming here."

He pauses.

"Bye bye, Ghostbur."

Wilbur looks back, ducking his head at the stupidity of his grave. The _TR_ stands out to him more than anything. He knows very, very well what was scraped off of his grave. _TRAITOR._ Wilbur rolls his eyes, brushing his fingers over the word. Traitor. That's funny, he thinks.

Hilarious, even. 

"A traitor," he smiles. "Me? I think I'm the least traitorous man I have ever met. How can I be a traitor in my own nation?"

Wilbur leans back on his heels, standing a little straighter. His lips tug up in a grin, his eyes crinkling at the sides.

"I think it's about time I stopped being dead."


End file.
